大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Elizabeth Perez of Stockport Libraries on behalf of Doreen Millington and has been added to the site with her permission. She fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

"I was eight years old at the start of the war. We were evacuated for the first part of the war, which was an ordeal in itself. We were brought home and then it was the Manchester Blitz at Christmas-time. It was bad. We lived in Braddon Street, the other side of Bigland Street. The warden came round and told my Dad to get us to the shelter on Regent Street. We normally stayed under the stairs with blankets. We had to go because a landmine had landed on Bigland Street. As we were going up Oldfield Road, we were being shot at, the bullets hit a big wooden door as we ran past, none of us was hurt, no thanks to the German. As we were running, my Stepmum said "I have forgotten to lock the back door." Dad said "What are you worried about, it probably won't be there when we get back." There was a mill at the bottom of our street, we called it Dickey Howorths. The plane crashed into the mill, some people say the pilot committed suicide, "kame kazi". When we got home next morning there wasn't a door or window. "There you are", said Dad, "I told you not to worry about not locking the door". The devastation was bad, everybody started to try and clear some of rubble away. Some people had no homes to go to, we were lucky we could get in as there were no door or windows.

We kids used to go round looking for shrapnel and look in shop windows for sweets, but we were told not to eat any as the Germans had poisoned them.

There used to be a cinema that was closed, it was used as a mortuary, they put all the bodies until they could find out who they were.

One day I went out looking round the shops that had been bombed. I could hear a cat crying in one of the shops, going forward to look where it was, I fell down a coal grid, my knee stopped me going right down into the cellar. I got up, ran home with blood pouring out of my knee. My uncle was home on leave, he put an army dressing on and said "Come on, I will take you to Salford Royal Hospital for stitches." I begged him not to as they would cut off my leg off. He couldn't get me there. It went alright, but I still have the scar to prove it. The best part of this story is the kitten got out and ran away, there's gratitude for you."

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